Andy Burnham basically walked out this week and said, “Right, that’s it — disabled people can get on the bus whenever they fancy. Midnight? Dawn? After a kebab? Go on then, hop aboard.”
It’s like he’s handed out 24/7 golden tickets, except instead of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, it’s the 86 to Piccadilly with a bloke eating crisps at 7 am.
Honestly, the way he announced it, you’d think he’d just solved world peace. But fair play — he’s ended the bizarre rule where disabled people could only travel after 9:30 am, as if they were vampires who weren’t allowed out before daylight.
Some councils must be fuming: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN they can travel at 8:59?! We’ll have chaos!” Meanwhile, Burnham’s there like: “Grow up. Let people get to the doctor’s without needing a tactical military timetable.”
It’s all very well giving disabled people the “Congratulations, you can ride whenever you want!” Wonka ticket… but have you SEEN a British bus at rush hour?
You’re stood there thinking, “Lovely, I can travel for free now,” while the 7:42 pulls up already full of commuters, school kids, three prams, someone’s emotional support dog, and a bloke who’s decided the priority seat is his personal throne.
The driver opens the doors, looks at the crowd, sighs like he’s doing Shakespearean tragedy, and mutters: “There’s no room. Next one’s in… whenever it feels like it.”
Burnham’s policy: free travel for disabled people, 24/7! Reality: the bus is already full of people who got on at the previous stop because it’s the only one that actually turned up.
It’s like giving everyone VIP access to a nightclub… but forgetting the nightclub is the size of a broom cupboard.
Free travel is brilliant — but you still need a bus that actually arrives, has space, and isn’t “terminating early due to reasons,” which is bus‑driver code for:
“I’m fed up, Sandra. I’m going home.”
Because Burnham can hand out golden tickets like he’s Willy Wonka, but if the 47 is already stuffed with commuters, three prams, a dog wearing a jumper, and someone’s weekly shop balanced like Jenga, then disabled people aren’t boarding — they’re just waving at it as it sails past like the world’s saddest parade float.
And the “terminating early” thing? Oh please. British buses terminate early more often than relationships on Love Island.
You’re stood there thinking, “Lovely, free travel!” and the bus is thinking, “Not today, mate.”
Wheelchair users do have friends, you know — and some of those friends are ALSO wheelchair users. So what exactly are they meant to do? Take turns? Book the wheelchair bay like it’s a meeting room at work?
It’s ridiculous. One wheelchair space on a bus is like saying: “Disabled people may board… but only one at a time, please, form an orderly queue of lifelong friendships waiting outside in the rain.”
And the best part? If two wheelchair users turn up together, the driver gives that look — the one that says: “I wasn’t trained for this. My handbook didn’t cover FRIENDSHIP.”
It’s like the bus companies genuinely believe wheelchair users travel solo, never socialise, never go out in pairs, and certainly never have a mate who also rolls.
Meanwhile, the reality is: Two wheelchair users together? They’re laughing, living their lives, going out, going shopping, going for lunch — and the bus is there acting like it’s been asked to solve quantum physics.
The whole system is basically: “Disabled people can travel freely… as long as they don’t travel together.”
Which is mad. Imagine telling any other group: “Only one of you allowed at a time.” People would riot.
But wheelchair users? They’re expected to negotiate like diplomats at the UN just to get on the 47.
THE MONTHLY MOSQUITO 